Sometimes, the Pain
by paganpunk2
Summary: When Dick comes looking for cuddles during a weekend visit to the Manor, Bruce knows there's something amiss. T for violence, language. Original prompt from ARL15 (thank you!).
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This story was originally inspired by a request from ARL15 to see an adult Dick going in to Bruce for cuddles. It will be a three-shot, and the next chapter may be a few days out since I'm trying to keep up on Firework, too. In any case, here are angst and cuddles galore! Happy reading!**

Bruce had been waiting for his bedroom door to crack open before the silent footfalls of his eldest child ever since he'd retired to his chamber. When it finally happened, he felt the corners of his lips twitch upwards into a sad smile. _About time, chum. I was beginning to wonder if I needed to go to __you__. _He'd known something was wrong from the moment he entered the manor that afternoon only to be informed that Dick was downstairs and had announced his intentions to stay the weekend. It wasn't an unusual occurrence – he did this every few months or so when he managed to get two days off in a row – but there had been a glint in Alfred's eyes that told him that something was amiss.

His first and unspoken favorite son wasn't like the three who had followed, he knew; when the time was right, he would talk. There was no need to pry or to drag the truth from him. Consequently, the billionaire had put up with the façade of happiness the younger man wore all through the evening and into their joint Batman/Robin/Nightwing patrol without comment. As the hours crept by, however, his worry deepened. Dick had come home for advice, comfort, or both, he was certain, and in such instances the severity of the problem was always given away by when he broached the topic. The earlier in the day, the better: things mentioned during their pre-dinner conversation or over the meal itself usually ended in laughter; troubles saved for the hours between one of the butler's gourmet entrees and their drive into the city were nothing to laugh about; those reserved for the rooftops would have resulted in tears had they not been in costume. Only life-and-death matters of the utmost importance lingered until after bedtime, and that was why Bruce felt a knot of concern writhing in his stomach as a shadow approached the bed. _…It's so late,_ he thought. _What could be so bad that you didn't want to tell me about it until now? It's worse than that, even,_ he realized as the figure came to a halt. _You've had time to go to sleep since we got back, which means you probably had a nightmare. It took a bad dream to convince you to talk to me about this. Jesus, Dick, it hasn't taken that much in years…what's __wrong__?_

"…Bruce?"

He lifted the covers with one arm, inviting him in. With the others he wouldn't have bothered, since Damian would have just scoffed, Tim would have given him an odd look and likely remained standing, and Jason wouldn't have come to him to begin with. Dick, though, simply tumbled in with a sniffle and allowed himself to be pulled close, just as open to affectionate caresses at twenty five as he had been at ten. "…Talk to me," Bruce whispered, his fingers automatically beginning to draw circles on the thin cotton shirt that couldn't quite mask scarred ridges of flesh.

"…I'm afraid to," came back shakily. "I'm afraid you're going to…to hate me."

_…You say that like you honestly believe it,_ the billionaire winced. _How could you, though? I could never…_ "You know better than that. I won't hate you." Silence. "Come on, stop this. It can't be that bad. Unless someone died, I think you're being a little overdramatic." _Usually you're pretty good about not exaggerating your problems, but we all have our moments. Maybe this is one of yours, _he thought hopefully. _You're probably going to feel silly in the morning for blowing this thing way out of proportion…_

Dick burst into tears.

"Whoa, hey," Bruce started, taken aback. _Okay, now we've moved into a whole different realm of trouble,_ he grimaced, moving his hand up to cradle the back of his sobbing son's head. _Damn it, why did I say that? I should have known better…who could possibly be dead, though, that would upset him like this? I know it's no one in the League, I'd have been one of the first to hear…another cop, maybe? That __would__ bother him, especially if it was one of the few he talks about semi-regularly, but…I don't think that's something he would brood about like he has been. He'd bring that up right away. This doesn't make sense…_

"Dicky," he crooned, pulling out the diminutive nickname that he hadn't voiced since the man in his arms had first left home. "What's this about? You have to tell me, I can see it's got you riled." There was no answer. "…You're starting to scare me, chum. I need you to calm down and talk to me." The crying went on into a spate of hiccups that left him sounding as if he couldn't breathe, and Bruce felt his apprehension begin to morph into outright fear. "If you don't calm down, I'm going to have Alfred get you a sedative," he warned gently. "I don't want to do that, baby. I'd rather you talked to me. Please."

The hitching in the younger man's shoulders eased slowly as he tried to control himself. He clung to the figure holding him, short nails leaving half-moon crescents where they dug into a hard tricep. "I…" he managed finally. "I…"

"Slow and easy."

"…I didn't mean to do it, Bruce. I didn't, I just…I didn't have a _choice_, and…and now…"

"…Now what?" he resumed the gentle circles of earlier.

"I…I'm on leave from work. I know they had to do it, they had to put me on probation during the investigation, but…oh, _god_, why?!"

_…He's not this worked up about being on probation,_ the billionaire frowned. _It must be whatever he's in trouble for. _"Why are you being investigated?"

"I…I don't want to talk about it," his voice broke, "but if I don't…I don't want you to read about it in the paper. I don't want you to…to be blindsided if someone c-c-_calls_…and they will, I kn-_know_ they will, the press is going to be all over it and I'm _sorry_, Bruce!"

"I know," he hushed him, his own cheeks dampening under the sheer hopelessness and desperation underlining every word that hit his ears. "I know you're sorry. But I don't know what you're sorry _for_. I need you to tell me that part still." _Tell me everything. This is torture, listening to you like this. You're far from a defenseless person, Dick, but whatever this is has obviously left you bare. Let me help, please. I'm begging you, let me fix it..._ "Just start at the beginning, okay? The very beginning."

"You're going to get mad. You're going to…to _hate_ me…"

"I won't. I promise." _You're far too disturbed by this for it to make me mad. I'm much more concerned about helping you past it than about being angry with you, regardless of what the problem is. _

"I…" He coughed, his lungs protesting the odd strain that his fierce crying jag had put them under. "I was on patrol," he said quietly.

"Which patrol?"

"BPD. I…I have a couple different routes, and I try to mix them up so there's no pattern, you know? Anyway…there's this bank that I go by every day when I'm on duty. I just poke my head in, maybe…maybe flirt with one of the girls if it's quiet. Grab a lollipop. They all know me, and I can tell it makes them feel…safer, I guess. Anyway, yesterday afternoon I did what I always do, just…strolled in. Right…right into the middle of a fucking stick-up." He paused to take several deep breaths. "There was just one robber, but he had a hostage. Gun to his head, the whole nine yards, just…just holding him like that while the teller emptied the drawer into a bag for him. Everyone else was on the ground, scared out of their minds. I don't even think they heard me come in at first, because half of them screamed when I ordered him to drop his weapon. I don't know why no one behind the counter had hit a panic button, but…maybe there wasn't time. I don't know. It doesn't really matter.

"He turned around fast when he heard me, and put his prisoner between us. I felt so bad for that poor guy, standing there with a muzzle against his temple. He had this look in his eyes, this…this gleam of mortal terror with just a little bit of resignation growing every second. I _loathed_ that, Bruce; I didn't even know who that man was, but he didn't deserve that. The front of his pants was wet, and I knew that if he got out of there alive that _that_ was going to be what stuck with him. Not the gun, not the guy holding it, but the fact that he'd pissed himself in fear. He didn't deserve that either, that…that emasculation, I guess.

"I'd pulled my gun when I hollered at him. Usually that's enough to make them back off; they don't mind pointing a weapon at someone else, but they get scared quick when they're looking down the wrong end of a barrel. If I had thought I could get away with it I'd have tried to sneak up behind him before he knew I was in the bank, but there were just too many people and too much ground to cover. Even if I'd gone full Nightwing, I don't know that I could have managed it. He had the hostage's head too close to his own for me to risk throwing my baton for a knock-out…I didn't even have time to call for backup. It was just him and me, staring each other down across the lobby like…like a couple of Old West gunslingers."

He shook his head against Bruce's shoulder. "I don't know exactly how many people I've fought, or in how many different situations, but that…that was the most surreal moment of my life, except maybe when…when my parents were falling. It's…it's a close tie. I know that sounds weird, but it's the truth. I keep thinking about it, those couple of seconds when we were measuring each other, trying to read what the other person was going to do, what _we_ were going to do in response…I think I already knew what I…what I was going to _have_ to do, but…I didn't know if I really _could_, when it came down to it.

"One of the people on the ground piped up to say that there were three more men in the back with the manager, trying to get into the safe. My guy…he just yanked his hand around and shot her. Like it was _nothing_. And I know I've seen that happen before, _you_ know I've seen it happen before, but…never during the daytime. I wasn't ready for it, for the way her head just…ugh. Not when I wasn't seeing it from behind a mask. Not without that filter.

"Like I said, I think I knew what was going to happen before it did, but…well, I've had to point my gun at more than a few people to defuse a situation. I hate it, I hate it every time, but when there's no other way to get the job done without giving myself away, I do it. But I'd _never_ actually pulled the trigger before. There's…there's no way to prepare yourself for that. I…I aimed for his hand, Bruce, I swear to you that I just wanted to disarm him before he hurt or k-killed anyone else. And I know…I know I hit the gun. I saw it afterwards, I saw where my bullet hit it and…and ricocheted." His voice cracked again, echoing the pain in his heart. "It deflected into his face. Right…right through his eye. He dropped, of course, and the hostage ran straight for the bathroom. It took the others almost forty minutes to get him to unlock the door and let them in, once they arrived, but…I wasn't worried about him. Not right then.

"I had one hand on my radio the second I saw him go down. The other three burglars panicked and ran out a back door when they heard the first shot, or at least that's what someone – maybe it was my sergeant, I don't really remember – told me later. I haven't heard the recording, but I must have managed to tell dispatch what they needed to hear, because about eight other officers arrived inside of ten minutes, and…and paramedics, too. It didn't matter, though. It didn't m-_matter._"

He began to shake with sobs once more as he reached the crux of the story, his distress making his last sentence almost unintelligible. "I t-tried to save him, honest, I t-t-tried _so fucking hard_, _Bruce,_ but…he was d…de…d-d-dead b-before he even hit the gr-_ground_."


	2. Chapter 2

The billionaire lay absolutely still for a long moment, trying to process what had just been said. _Dead. You…he…__gun__…oh, fucking hell…_ "Okay," he whispered numbly. "Okay. Hush, chum. Just…just hush now."

"Can't," was choked back. "Don't…can't…I…"

"Shhh…" _Oh, god, I don't even know how to tell you that it's all right,_ Bruce panicked. _It's like you said, if it had happened on night patrol you would have had your mask, that filter. You wouldn't have had to hold back your abilities; you could have approached the situation differently. Even if the man had died anyway, and the hostage too, it wouldn't have been like this. It still would been hard, of course, but…not like this. _There was an accepted level of risk when they were in costume, knowing as they did what kind of people they were chasing and that some of them would fight until they were physically incapable of doing so. _And with a gun…could it be any worse, really, unless he had accidentally hit and killed the hostage instead? My poor, sweet little Dicky…_

"Bruce…don't hate me. Please, _please_ don't hate me, I didn't mean it, I swear…!" He clung to him, dry sobs tearing from his throat. "I didn't…I _couldn't_…"

"I know," the older man soothed. "Hush. I know. It's okay."

"It's _not_!"

"Shh, shhshhshh…" _Jesus, they let you leave the station in this state? Although to be fair, you hid it extremely well all evening. I'm not sure whether to be proud of your acting abilities or disappointed that you didn't seek help earlier. And now that the dam has broken, how far is this going to go? I've got to get you calmed down…_ "I know. Let's back up a little and talk about this, okay?"

"But…but I _killed_ someone, Bruce! With…with a fucking _gun_!"

"…Is that why you think I would hate you for what happened? Because there was a gun involved?"

He seemed to choke for a moment. "H-h-how could you _not_?!"

"Because it wasn't your fault, Dick."

"I pointed a gun at someone and killed them!" he wailed.

"Yes, you did. You did that in the line of duty, though, in the course of protecting the innocent. You said yourself that you tried to disarm him, and the bullet ricocheted. From what you've told me, you did everything in your power to end the situation with the minimal amount of lost life."

"No…no, I didn't. I could have done better, Bruce. No one should have died, and instead two people did, one of them for doing nothing more than trying to…to have a simple trip to the bank…all because…because of _my_ actions. They're dead because of _me_."

…_You're so confused,_ the billionaire sighed miserably. _Of __course__ this isn't because of you, how can you think that?_ "Dick, this _isn't your fault_."

"It is!" he nearly shouted back. "You weren't _there_, okay?! And I can't…I can't really tell you how it was. I just…I failed. I failed those two people who died, and I failed all the people who had to watch them die. I failed the rest of the department, I failed my…myself. I failed my parents, and Alfred, and Tim, and Damian. Jesus, what…what kind of an example did I set for them today? And for Jason, too. Why should he take seriously all those times I've asked him to stop being willing to kill, when…when now _I've_ done it, too? And the worst part…I failed _you_, Bruce." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I failed you in the worst way that I ever possibly could. All those years of training, of learning how to do things the right way so that justice was served without people dying from our methods…I turned my back on all of that today, on everything you taught me. I…I pulled the trigger. I killed him. And I c-can't take it back…"

Suddenly he was out of bed, wriggling his way free of the billionaire's grasp through that strange acrobatic magic that Bruce had never been able to fully figure out. "…I can't take it back, Bruce," he repeated, his arms crossed over his stomach, hands clutching his sides. "They're reviewing me. They're gonna kick me off the force, probably…probably ch-charge me, I don't know with what, but…then what, I end up in jail with all the people I've put in there? I don't want anyone to see me like that. I don't…I don't want anyone to have to come see me in fucking _prison_."

"No one is throwing you in jail, Dick," Bruce sat up. He ached to go to him, to lead him back to the mattress, get him settled, and call Alfred for a sedative, but he knew better than to approach him too quickly when he was so distraught. _He's shaking. Oh, baby…don't…don't blame yourself for this. Please. _"Come on, you aren't the first officer who's had to fire their weapon in the line of duty. You're not even the first one in Bludhaven to have done that _this year_."

"It's not the same," he negated, shaking his head. "How…how can I keep being Nightwing, up on my high horse about not killing, now? How…how do you not hate me, Bruce? You _have_ to hate me. You…you hate everything to do with guns, and I…I remember your face when you saw mine. That day last summer, at the Sister Cities Solstice Celebration? I was in the BPD booth, about to go on patrol, and…and I saw your face. I _know_, Bruce. I know how you feel about the fact that I carry a gun at work."

…_I didn't mean for you to see that,_ he winced. He, too, could easily recall the instance his son was referring to. He'd put in an appearance on the Gotham side of the annual festival, stopping by the booths related to Wayne Enterprises and announcing the first musical performance of the day at the main stage that the company sponsored, before deciding to cross the river and see how things were going on the other side. Dick had texted him early that morning to say that he would be helping to man the police booth before he went on patrol at the event, and glancing at his watch Bruce had decided that he might still catch him there if he hurried. He'd woven his way through the vendors and pedestrians that packed the closed Franklin Memorial Bridge, eager to see his boy at work and willing to brave the crowds to do so. They didn't let up once he stepped onto Bludhaven soil, and he was beginning to fear that he would be just a minute or two too late when he spotted a banner bearing the seal of the City of Bludhaven imposed on a police shield. He'd rushed forward, then come to a sharp halt just a few meters short of the tables that were overloaded with BPD t-shirts and informational pamphlets.

Dick had clearly just said something that his fellow officers found extremely amusing, since he was grinning broadly while everyone else in blue laughed. Someone clapped him on the back, and as the chortling died down he'd turned towards a pegboard behind him and lifted a shoulder holster free. The butt of his standard-issue sidearm had gleamed dully in the bright mid-summer light, and Bruce had startled. It wasn't that he hadn't been aware that his son carried such a weapon while at work, by any means, but merely that he'd never seen him with it. The ease and comfort with which he fastened the piece in place had disturbed the billionaire, but he'd plastered a faint smile on as the person he'd come to see spotted him and came forward. "…Dick, I-"

"I _saw_, Bruce. I understand, I really do, but…you never mentioned it. You walked that first round of my patrol with me, and we talked about all sorts of things, but…not that. I wanted to, you know. I…I'd tried so hard to not let you see me with it, you know? Even when I came home in uniform, I always took it off before I came inside. Before…before I even came through the gate. But I saw your face that day, and I saw how you hid it, your…your _disappointment_. And you never said a word, and I was too afraid to, Bruce, afraid that you'd think I was…was becoming like Jason, I guess, and…and then nothing was ever said. But nothing changed between us, either, and I started to wonder if maybe I'd misread you. Maybe…maybe you weren't disappointed, just surprised. Or something else entirely, I don't know. Maybe the sun was in your eyes…but now…it _was_ disappointment, wasn't it? You were sad, and that was before I…I used it on someone. Now…it's worse now, huh? You…you have to hate me now, Bruce. You have to."

"Dick, I _don't hate you._ Christ, chum…no." He reached for him with one hand, inviting him back to the bed. "I don't hate Jason, you know that, and I sure as hell don't hate you. I'm not even disappointed; I just want to help you feel better. C'mon, kiddo, please. We can fix this."

"…No," he shook his head, pressing his hands to his temples. "No. You _have_ to hate me, Bruce. _You have to!"_

"Why?" the billionaire pled, almost whining. _He's staying here longer than the weekend,_ the part of his mind that wasn't in full parental panic mode said firmly. _He's staying indefinitely, at least until they get the investigation closed and we can get him someone to talk to. I hate to send him to a psychologist, but it's probably required for officers involved in shootings in any case, and frankly I have no idea where to even begin with this. It would be one thing if it was only that a death – two deaths – had occurred on his watch, but the gun aspect is all knotted up in there, and I don't know how to tackle that._ "Why do I have to hate you? Tell me."

For a long moment, the silence was so oppressive that it made their ears ring. "…Because _I_ hate me now," Dick said finally, his tone carrying a hollowness that made every cell in Bruce's brain cry out in denial. "And so should everyone else." With that, he turned and fled soundlessly into the hall, just barely dodging the billionaire's fingers as they clawed out after him.

"_Shit_!" Bruce exclaimed, losing his balance as he leaned out over the edge of the mattress in his attempt to snag his son's arm. He rolled as he hit the floor, avoiding injury, but the sheets tangled around his legs. "Fuck, get off of me, god _damn_ it!" Kicking out and shoving at the fine fabric, he struggled for several seconds before he heard a definitive tearing sound and felt his bindings loosen. _Where did you go, kiddo? Jesus, don't you dare have run off to do something stupid, please…we can fix this…_

He bolted into the hallway, glancing in both directions before he focused on the shut door directly across from him. _Don't be locked,_ he begged, attacking the knob. His fingers slipped over the highly polished metal ineffectually. _Fuck! You __never__ lock your door…_ Dashing back, he fished out a ring of keys from his sock drawer and flew into the corridor once more. His hands shook as he shoved the proper one into place and threw the portal open, rushing in frantically. _Not here. The bathroom door's open, he's not in there either…_ His eyes jumped to the window just in time to see a fine spray of snow blow in through a small crack at the bottom. For an instant, he felt his heart pause, then speed to double time. _…The roof,_ he sobbed as he pelted after him. _He's gone to the roof. No, baby…please, no…_

**Author's Note: I promise I won't leave you with that cliffhanger for too terribly long. Third chapter will be up by the end of this week. Happy reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

Dick sat on the long spine of the west wing of the manor and stared at the granular snow gusting around him. The cold wind cut straight through to his bones, steadying him somewhat, but the depths of his despair still called. _I don't know what to do,_ he sobbed. _I…I betrayed the most important thing I believe in. Everything I do – work, Nightwing, all of it – was based on that central tenet of not killing. But…but I did. I killed a man, and I let him kill someone else first. And now…now everyone has to hate me. Why would anyone want to be around such a fucking __hypocrite__? 'Don't kill, don't kill, don't kill…blam!' My life in a nutshell._ _I could have done so many things differently…_

"Dick. Stop. _Please_," a painfully familiar voice begged from behind him.

He hadn't expected to have the roof to himself for long, but for all that he'd anticipated that Bruce would chase after him he couldn't have imagined the desperate, pleading tone those three words had been spoken in. "I _can't,_" he cried back, keeping his eyes forward in order to avoid seeing the other man's expression. "I'm a…a murderer. I…I can't. I don't know…" A series of faint crunches indicated the billionaire's approach, and then there was a wall of warmth beside him, around him, pulling him into an embrace. "Let go," he struggled weakly.

"No," the grip tightened. "I'm not letting you jump, baby. I…I couldn't…if you…no," he concluded firmly.

"I hadn't thought of jumping, but…" _Falling. No, that's not how I want to go. Not…not like mom and dad._

"_No_**,** damn it! That wasn't a suggestion. Don't you _dare_ hurt yourself. Don't you dare. Talk to me, _please._"

Dick suddenly found his face nestled in the same spot on his former guardian's shoulder that had caught so many of his tears in the past, pressed there by a panic-spasming hand. _Let me go,_ he whined uselessly in his head. _Let me…let me go away. Then you don't have to be ashamed any more, Bruce. Maybe…maybe that will make up for what I did, at least a little bit. _"…I don't want to."

"…Ouch, Dicky," Bruce frowned down at him, wounded.

"No, I just…it's easier if everyone just goes ahead and hates me now, okay? I…I'm too confused about everything to deal with a bunch of different reactions, so…everyone should just hate me. I deserve it," he choked out hoarsely.

"You do _not_ deserve it. And the people who know you are _not_ going to hate you, no matter how much you think that they should. Think about what you're saying. Do you honestly believe that Alfred will hate you, or Tim, or Damian, or Jason, Barbara, Wally, Clark, Leslie, Diana...any of them? And your fellow officers, how could they hate you for doing your job? For doing what they might have to do themselves someday? They aren't feeling hate right now, Dick, I guarantee it. Relief, maybe, that it wasn't them, and a fair bit of pity, but I have no doubt that the majority of them will be supportive, not hateful, about all of this. If any of the people I listed off _are_ nasty, I guess I'll just have to beat sense back into them. But that's not going to happen, because they _know_ you. They'll know how much this is tearing you up inside, chum, and you know that that's the truth. So stop this. Stop this, please. Let the people who care about you help you. Let…let _me_ help you. Please," he whispered against his son's ear. "_Please_ don't do this. Don't let this destroy you. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes I _did_, Bruce! I could have done _better_!"

_Damn it, why won't you just believe me? It's my own fault for training you to question everything, I know, but it's very inconvenient right now,_ he sighed internally. _…We shouldn't be out here. Your skin is ice, and the roof's only going to get more slippery. The low pitch won't save us if we lose our footing or if you try to…well. I'm not letting that happen. _"Maybe you'd better come inside and explain your logic to me, because I'm not following," he gambled.

"…Huh?"

"Inside," he repeated the crucial point. "We're both going to freeze out here."

"…You go. I want to be numb."

_Jesus, Dick, don't say things like that. _"I'm not leaving this roof without you. If you get hypothermia, then I'm getting it right along with you." He paused. "Do you _really_ want to see Alfred that angry? Because I don't."

"I…" _I __am__ kind of chilly,_ he mused. _I get cold faster than Bruce does, but…I don't want him to get sick because of me. I've already done enough to hurt him today. _"…Okay. I guess we can…go in."

Bruce wished fervently that there was some way they could get back through the window without dangling from the side of the building, but he could only watch fearfully as his son hung for a moment before folding himself up and disappearing inside. _If he had let go right then,_ he gulped as he followed suit, _I couldn't have done a damn thing. I would have just…watched him fall._ A shudder raked him as he lowered the sash. _…I wonder if I would have jumped after him._

Shaking the thought off – _he didn't let go, he's fine, he's right here – _he turned to the bed. _Ooh, kiddo, did you have to curl up __exactly__ the way you used to when you were just a scared little boy trying to hide from your nightmares? And that look…_ he nearly pouted as he caught sight of wide, watery blue eyes peeking at him over the younger man's pulled-up knees._ I remember that look. That's the 'hold me and make it all go away' stare. I haven't seen that in a long, long time…_

"Okay, chum." He sat down on the mattress as he spoke, grabbing the folded blanket at the end of the bed before scooting back to lean against the headboard. "Here." Feeling a bit low on body heat now that they were back inside, he spread the light quilt out over both of them, then pulled Dick close with one arm. "Now…how could you have done better?" _Talk it out with me._

"I…I should have been less complacent, to start with," came back through chattering teeth. "Just because the bank is always fine when I go in was no excuse for not noticing what was going on before I was in the m-middle of it. I…I might have been able to retreat before anyone saw me, before I said anything, and called for backup. Or…I should have fired when he moved to shoot the hostage. He was fast, but…I should have been faster. I should have ant-t-ticipated him, but I _didn't_, and now that lady – she was just trying to help, Bruce, she just wanted to let me know that there were others, too – is _dead_. And…and if I had sh-shot him in the arm when he was moving to shoot her, I'll bet he wouldn't be d-dead either. I screwed it all up, _all_ of it, and two people paid with their lives."

"…You're human, Dick. You said you got complacent, but to be fair…you can't be on hyper-alert all the time."

"_You_ are."

Bruce nearly laughed. "No. I'm not. When I go to work in the morning after a night of late patrol, do you think I'm suspicious of every phone call, every business associate? Do you think I watch everyone in line at the coffee cart in the lobby and try to pick out who's most likely to have intentions of robbing the place?"

"Yes."

"Di-ick…" _I'm not infallible. I used to think I was pretty damn close to it, but…kids have this odd ability to see and to point out all of the faults you're blind to yourself, and yet still love you. That goes double for clever little eight-year-olds with a seeming superpower when it comes to making people adore them right back._

"Well, you make it seem that way! And besides, that isn't your day job. But it _is_ mine. Don't you see? I…I dropped the ball. I wasn't good enough, and now two people are dead."

"Even if you were on alert every moment of every day, some things would get past you. You know that I'm not…perfect," he admitted. "You know I've made mistakes, or just failed to see something that maybe I would have at another time, or if I'd had an extra cup of coffee that morning, or if any one of a thousand other factors had been different. Hell, do you know what I _actually_ do while I'm waiting for my latte in the morning? I take my phone out, I hold it at an angle so no one else can see the screen, and I pretend to be staring at it, but…I'm actually closing my eyes and sleeping for a minute until I have to move up."

"…And you get away with that?" a small, almost amused voice asked.

"Been doing it for _years."_

"Huh. But…" he shifted, "that doesn't change the fact that if you go off-duty a little, no one…no one dies. I went off-duty while I was _on_-duty."

"You didn't go off-duty, Dick. Not from what you told me. You said earlier that you threw away all the training we did together, but what you did in that bank demonstrates the exact opposite. You walked into a situation that you weren't expecting and reacted quickly and effectively, and _that's_ what I trained you to do. Being prepared is great, but it's much more important to be able to react appropriately even when you _aren't_ prepared. You can't go through life trying to prepare for every single possibility or peeking around every corner as if something's going to bite you; not even Batman is quite that paranoid. But if you make that turn and there _is_ something there to hurt you or someone else, you have to be ready to respond. And you were. You're here with me now, and those other hostages are home safe with their families, because you _didn't_ throw away your training.

"Yes, two people died, and that's tragic, chum. It really is. But there could have been so many more husbands, wives, parents, and children who received an awful phone call this afternoon. If you hadn't walked in and done exactly what you did, who knows how many of them would have died? You mentioned that if you'd looked before you went in, you could have called for backup. Then what? Maybe that extra few seconds, or those extra few uniforms, would have been what pushed that man over the edge and made him start shooting _everyone_. Maybe if you'd tried to take him down without your gun he…he would have shot _you_, and then proceeded to shoot everyone else. The point is, you have no way of knowing, the same as you didn't _know_ that you were going to be able to pull the trigger until you did it.

"There's something else that you need to realize, too. In a way I think it's bothering you almost as much as having accidentally – and that's important, Dick, this was an _accident_, and one that you tried to prevent – killed the robber. What you need to know," his voice dropped in pitch, "is that no matter what my expression was when I saw you at the festival last summer, and no matter what my personal feelings are about guns in general, there is no possible instance in which I would choose to save a criminal's life over yours. Obviously I'd prefer to be able to save you both in any situation, but…if someone is absolutely going to die, it had better _not_ be you. It could have happened today; he could have shot you, have…have _killed_ you, by design or by as equally accidental an event as when your bullet hit him. Do I particular _like_ that you have to carry a firearm for work? No. Not at all. But earlier, when you described that moment when the two of you were staring each other down, do you know what I thought?"

"…No," a faint murmur answered. "What?"

"I thought, thank _god_ that you were armed. I know, it caught me off guard too," he agreed when the younger man gave him a shocked look, "but I think I understand how I could feel that way, beyond the obvious reasons of wanting you safe and with your mask intact. Now, we both know that introspection isn't exactly my strongest suit, and I'm still working on this theory, but hear me out. To me," he ventured slowly, "a gun represents power. Huge power, Dick. I am afraid of that power, not only because I've seen it abused so many times in my life but because I know that it is a power that is beyond my ability to control. I don't just mean when someone else is wielding it; I mean for me, personally. If I picked up a gun, and brought myself to do what you did today…to pull the trigger…I don't believe that I would ever be able to stop. I would lose myself to it.

"But _you_…you've always been stronger than me, Dick, ever since the day I met you. Maybe not in the sense of punching someone into next week, but…in every other way. You'll never be corrupted by your gun the way I would be, and I think that your reaction to what happened demonstrates that. You have the strength to wield its power righteously and conservatively, and only when there is literally no other option. Even then, when that moment came along you managed to subvert the thing's entire reason to be, aiming to disarm rather than to kill or even incapacitate. That took an _immense_ amount of self-control, and I know it without so much as laying a hand on a gun. If there is _anyone_ in this world that I could possibly trust to never misuse that power, it's you. Today you showed me that that trust is in no way misplaced.

"Whether there was a gun involved or not…there aren't words for how proud I am of the way you performed. Yes, two people are dead, and like I already said, that's a tragedy. But that tragedy was _not_ your fault, and while I know that that seems impossible to believe right not, I have to ask you to just trust me that it's true. When it comes down to it, chum," he met the gaze that hadn't left his face since he'd begun to speak, "I guess the most succinct way to put it is that you're no Joe Chill, and you never will be. I have absolute confidence in that fact."

The younger man's eyes widened, his mouth visibly trembling for an instant before he dove at Bruce and closed what few gaps had remained between them. "…You _really_ don't hate me? Not…not even a little bit?" he asked in a porcelain voice.

"Not even an iota, Dicky," the billionaire swore, squeezing his son tightly. "The only thing I hate is that you feel like I _should_."

"…I just don't know what to do, Bruce. I…I feel so lost. I don't think I have the strength to…to tell people what happened. To listen to what they have to say back, even if it's supportive. I just…don't want to talk about it. I don't want to _think_ about it. If everyone hates me, they'll say their angry bit and then stop talking to me about it. But people who want to help…they want to talk about it all the time, or they give you these looks so you know that they're thinking about it, and that makes _you_ think about it, too, and…and I can't do that. I don't have it in me. I just don't. And then the review board, and the media, and…and everything…I just want to lock myself in a room and never come out. I don't want to deal with it, I just…I just want it to go away."

"I can't make it go away," Bruce sighed, "but at least here you'll be sheltered from it a little. I don't want you going back to Bludhaven, Dick, at least not for a good while. Let this resolve itself while you focus on what _you_ need."

"…I don't know what I need."

"Then…maybe you should let me try and figure that out for you. Is that okay? I'm not going to send you fleeing into the night again if I do that, am I?"

"So long as you keep your hands off of my mask and I can have a say in things once I have, you know, half a clue of what's going on, I think I can deal with that for a while."

"…You don't think you should take a little break from night work?" _I hate to even suggest that, but...what if you froze up out there, afraid that whatever you did would result in another death? Then __you'd__ be the one who ended up…who got hurt._

"No. I think night work is going to be one of the few times that I can actually put it all out of my head, more or less. I've always been best at ignoring my civilian problems when I'm on patrol, you know that. Besides…if I stop going out, I'm afraid I'll get scared and not be able to start again. I have to…to keep reminding myself that not every fight is going to end in a death." He gulped. "I felt better earlier, when we were out on patrol, than I have since I walked into that bank and this all started. I _need_ my mask, Bruce."

"…Then I won't argue." _I hate it, but I won't argue. I'm not throwing us back down that same old road, not when you're already dealing with so much._

"…Really?"

"Really."

"…Wow."

"But I _do _want you to talk to someone about this."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"A psychologist, Dick. Someone who has experience dealing with this sort of thing."

"…You're serious, aren't you? But you _loathe_ psychologists!"

"I don't want to risk screwing it up, chum. I'm not saying we can't talk – I want you to find me or call me whenever you need to talk, you know that – but I _am_ saying that I want to make sure you're in the best hands possible. When it comes to figuring out all of those tangled emotions you're carrying around after today, I'm going to have to have assistance."

"I'm that screwed up, am I?"

"Not screwed up; just hurt, scared, confused, and more than a little uncertain. All of which," he assured, "is perfectly natural, and not in the least shameful."

"I never needed a psychologist before, and I've been plenty screwed up in the past."

"Yes. But there was never a gun in your hand before, and while that doesn't bother me as much as you obviously thought it would, I know it bothers _you_. That's the salient point, Dick, is taking care of what you need. Not me, not the media, not the other people who were affected by this; _you_. That is what I'm concerned about. As for everyone else…unless their goal is to help you, they can go to hell."

They were silent for a long time after that, simply sitting with their arms around one another and soaking in comfort. "…Bruce?" came finally.

"Hmm?"

"…I don't want to be alone tonight."

"I know. You aren't. And you won't be, either."

"You won't leave if I fall asleep?"

"No. I'll stay right here in case you need me, just like when you were a baby."

"…I was never a baby here, Bruce."

The billionaire leaned his head back in the semi-dark and smiled beatifically, remembering. "…You were to me, chum." _Sometimes,_ he mused as Dick gave a sleepy sound of comprehension rather than arguing, _you even still let me treat you a bit like one. And while I wish the circumstances that got us to this point tonight hadn't been so horrific, I'll never, ever complain about stealing a few more minutes like these from life._ Craning his neck, he pressed a gentle kiss against his son's hair. _Good night, baby. Sweet dreams. And if they aren't sweet…I'll be here for you. I swear it._

**Author's Note: I hope you all enjoyed this story! Thanks for reading, and double thanks to those of you who have been so kind as to review. **


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